


flotsam and jetsam

by ozmissage



Category: Being Human
Genre: Love/Hate, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozmissage/pseuds/ozmissage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ivan thinks perhaps the dog loathes him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	flotsam and jetsam

Ivan thinks perhaps the dog loathes him.

He says it often enough, sneers it in fact, his lip turning upwards in a barely contained snarled--- _how appropriate_ , Ivan teases and the boy deflates, stutters out a protest and falls silent. Predictable as clockwork and yet, tantalizing all the same.

It’s been quite some time since Ivan had a companion who wasn’t Daisy. Oh, they both took a plaything here and there, that is the spice of life after all, but he always came home to her in a manner of speaking. But she’s gone now. Dead by a dog’s hand, but not this dog, not this _George_ that his Daisy reeked of once. No, George awoke something in Daisy; a spark of life that Ivan thought had long ago been extinguished.

He hopes George might do the same for him, might breathe new life into his tired lungs, but so far they only bicker, only wallow in their own losses. Ivan thinks it’s all quite dull, unlike Mitchell he has no self-loathing streak and no desire to encourage one in others.

“Come here,” Ivan demands. George glares at him, but obliges, crosses the hideous carpeting of their tiny hovel of a hotel room and stands in front of Ivan, waiting.

It seems they have once again arrived at the reason they each have for keeping the other around.

Ivan studies George’s face for a moment taking in the boyishness of it, the damnably large ears, and the cool blue of his eyes. He’s not at all Ivan’s type. Too stocky, too pale. But his eyes---there’s an innocence in them even now that there’s blood on the boy’s hands and a deep resentment in his heart, even now that he’s running, running so very far and so very fast from his old life, running with a man that he _loathes_. It’s fascinating and marvelous and it inflames Ivan, makes his dead heart beat faster than necessary, sends a rush of blood down to his cock, filling him with a deep need to fuck the secret right out of George.

He leans in close and smirks as he takes in the musky scent of the boy: George wants him as well. Perhaps he’s looking for his own secret, the secret of Ivan’s cold, black heart. _Go fish_ , Ivan thinks wryly as he crushes his lips against George’s.

There’s a desperation in their kisses that startles them both. Ivan finds the sensation pleasant, it’s not often that he finds occasion to be startled. He keeps his eyes open the whole time, finds that he wants to see the boy’s face twist in pleasure and pain and guilt. The emotions flicker across his face, a constant dance of humanity that Ivan finds irresistible.

He pushes George back onto the bed, nips at his neck, teeth dangerously close to George’s pulse point. The boy doesn’t flinch, not out of trust, Ivan’s too wise to consider that option, but out of hope.

“A fan of the macabre, are we?” Ivan asks and George hisses _shut up_ even as he’s pressing his hips into Ivan’s.

There’s no grace to their fucking, but George claws at Ivan’s back and Ivan groans as George takes him in hand, squeezing just a bit too roughly and it’s _good_ , Ivan thinks. It’s wonderful. But then he comes and the dance is over for another afternoon.

“I’m going home,” George says after. An empty threat.

“There’s the door,” Ivan replies lazily.

The dog stays, curled beside Ivan with his secret and his survivor’s guilt. Ivan watches him sleep.


End file.
